Lemon Bars

A cicada's loud rasp on the branch above, startles as it zips to nearby branch. Dappled sunlight plays capriciously on the brow of my little one, appearing and disappearing through maple leaves. Breeze riffles through fern-fingers and bent-over grasses and our chestnut hair. Splish-splashes of water, carefully poured from the spout of silver watering can, feeding thirsty thyme and spiraea. Snack-break for all. Little bars of sunshine, powdered in white, on the windowsill. Teeth sink in, through bright curd and buttery shortbread. A pungent tartness smarts slightly on the tongue. Big, dark eyes inquire for more. We both reach for another. A perfect day. 

Pulled Pork

I love pulled pork because it's easy and it makes a lot for a crowd. I can make it ahead and warm it in the crockpot before serving. And this recipe is so delicious. A dry rub and a flavorful broth add considerably to the flavor. Just these little extra steps take pulled pork from good to great!

Raspberry Jello Salad

This may just be the easiest recipe I ever post. One of those dump-it-all-in and stir-all-together dishes that ends up tasting deliciously wonderful. In fact, the most difficult thing about it is waiting the four hours until it sets. 

My mom made this "salad" a lot when I was in high school. It's a sweet dish with pungent bits of slightly tart berries. It makes a nice, bright accompaniment to a ham dinner or serve it as a cool treat when the weather is hot. Not to mention, that brilliant red color screams Independence Day picnics. It's also easy to make ahead and requires no oven. The perfect accompaniment to nestle between your hot dog and potato salad. 

Chocolate Pie

I'm not sure when my love of chocolate began. Perhaps it was when I began stealthily sneaking chocolate chips from the cupboard. Or maybe when my mom made chocolate pudding and we'd eat it hot out of the pot, burning our tongues, both unable to wait for it to cool. Or maybe it began when she made chocolate fudge and we'd scrape the leftovers from the pot with a tablespoon. But most certainly chocolate pie had something to do with my love of chocolate. 

It's a pie that my mom has made my whole life, a recipe her mother-in-law gave her. A homemade crust lining a glass pie plate, is poked with a fork and baked until just beginning to turn golden. The filling, a rich chocolate pudding is whipped up on the stove, turning thick as the cornstarch does its work. Later, some cream is whipped before the whole thing is assembled. Pudding into crust. Whipped cream atop the pudding. It's a beautiful medley of crunch, richness and sweetness. And the perfect dessert for the chocolate lover.

Strawberries for Strawberry Shortcake

Strawberry season always takes me by surprise in Pennsylvania. In central New York, where I grew up, the growing season is quite a bit later due to the area's reluctance to let go of winter. Berry season always started right around my birthday, toward the end of June, meaning that I almost always got a strawberry pie on my birthday instead of cake. But here in Philly, the season is on its way out the door by the time my special day rolls around and I almost always am scrambling to get to the berry patch in time to get my ten quarts of scarlet red fruit.  This year was no exception and we planned a quick trip to Lancaster to get the last bits of this year's bounty.

How-To: Pie Crust

I've been watching my mom make pie crust ever since I was a little girl. Cutting the fat into the flour, adding ice cold water, stirring with a fork. I would sit at the island and watch the rhythm of her arms rolling out the dough, always from the center outward. She transformed it from a squat disk into a beautiful sheet of thin pastry. It's an art that is best learned by watching and doing together, an old hand guiding yours as you learn the feel of the dough. My mom learned from her mother-in-law, my Grammy, who has made countless pies in her century of life. My mom taught my sister, who then taught me on a weekend of sister fun. 

Jack helps me sometimes, measuring flour or stirring the fork. Someday Emma will help too. Passing on the family tradition, over a century old. 

Chicken Tortellini Soup

Some days just call for soup. And soup has been calling my name during this unnaturally chilly beginning of June. I like this one because it's pretty quick. You use leftover rotisserie chicken (or a chicken breast that you've cooked in the crock pot) sauté some veggies, add broth and pasta and you're done twenty minutes later. Stews need lots of time and their hearty nature is generally more appropriate in winter. But this soup takes thirty to forty minutes, start to finish, and its light and clean broth makes a delicious supper for spring as well as winter. 

Morning Glory Muffins

The evening sounds of spring peepers had melted into the warble of songbirds at dawn's coming. As the sun grew warm upon the green grass, goldfinches flitted happily back and forth between the bird feeder and the clothes line that they were perching upon. Flashes of black and yellow, twittered and chattered. 

Water gurgled unbidden from the ground, cold springs released from the loam by the advent of warmer weather. A relentless bubbling that saturated the viridescent earth, which collapsed slightly under the tread of children's feet. 

An anxious robin guarded a newly-formed nest, the four blue eggs nestled comfortably in a downy hideaway, hidden from roving eyes in the shadowy depths of the blue spruce. 

Bumblebees buzzed lazily, bobbing unconcernedly among the blossom-laden branches of the apple tree. The crooked trunk and forked boughs formed an ideal climbing tree, a secret bower for the solitary explorer.

And Morning Glories twisted their way up the pussy willow, velvet tufts mingled with verdant green. White trumpets shouting that spring was finally here.

Blueberry Crumble

My Grandpa's GMC truck turns left, off of the smooth pavement and onto a worn gravel road. Grandpa and my Dad are up front, while Mom, Lace and I are somewhat squashed in the small backseat. Lace opens the back window and we stick our heads out, ever on the lookout for a stray moose, craning our necks to see into every bog that flies past or to peer studiously into the mud for fresh tracks. The tires fly over the sandy road, lined with bushy pines, white birch and the orange spray of my favorite wildflower, jewelweed. 

The road narrows and branches scratch mercilessly at the sides of the truck, leaves stripping off as they whip into the open window and then out again. My Grandpa slows way down as we come to a make-shift bridge--maybe two planks laid over a small gully or a culvert that is badly eroded and just barely passable. The truck rocks back and forth as it makes its way over several severe pot-holes, the road pock-marked with the lot of them. 

My Grandpa turns right, left, and then left again. It's a labyrinth of unending gravel road. An unceasing maze of scrub pine and bog. Sometimes we make our way through close forest, the trees hugging the road. Then we break free, into an open area where the trees have been logged off and it's nothing but mountains, rising tall on either side, covered in forest green with the marks of logging etched starkly onto its majestic sides. And once again I'm amazed that my Grandpa remembers how to get there. The place we go every year for berries. 

Popovers

The first time I ever had popovers was the summer Brad popped the question. I had just finished my junior year of college and it was a beautiful day at Longwood Gardens, when he pulled out a ring and asked me to be his wife. 

Upon going home to my parents, I began wedding planning right away. And one of the first things I did was look for a place for the reception. The winner was the Lincklaen House, an old refurbished inn in nearby Cazenovia. This small village, set on Cazenovia Lake, used to be a vacation destination for the wealthy a hundred years or so ago. 

My mom, sister and I walked into the Linckalen for lunch that June to assess the food and discuss menu options. It wasn't very crowded, there were only a few patrons sitting at small square tables. A breeze came through the open doors and the clinking of cutlery on plates could be heard from the outdoor patio. We sat there admiring the old woodwork, checkerboard tile floor and vintage feel, a feeling of anticipation and apprehension in our smiles. 

The server came by to fill our water glasses and offer the customary small plate of bread to pick at while we waited for our meal. Except it wasn't the usual variety of sourdough and whole wheat slices. Instead, we were given large, crusty-golden balloons that looked like they had mushroomed dramatically out of their pan. Upon piercing, these popovers released a cloud of steam and revealed a mostly-empty, wispy inside. The honey butter that accompanied it melted almost instantaneously upon contact with the hot bread and dripped lavishly down the sides and onto our hands. They were decidedly eggy and not overly sweet  and our eyes rolled with pleasure as we licked our fingers and possessively eyed the last one in the basket.

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I recently started making popovers at home and they are so delicious. Apart from being super easy, they are also super impressive and quite fun for little helpers to watch the dramatic rise in the oven.